While the 21st is the equinox and the first day of Spring, I think you might be being a little optimistic there. It was still snowing in Kyiv on Saturday :-D
the spring Frodo struggled across the ford at the Brandywine river, wishing that the messenger-elf's horse had stopped instead of running off. True, he was so short that mounting the horse would have been an issue, but it would have saved him from getting soaked through because no-one had thought that a bridge here would be a much more sensible way of traffic coming in and out of Hobbiton. The water was nearly neck deep on him, and even small waves washed over his head, plastering his hair to his skull and causing him to gasp for air. The current was strong and he had to fight it constantly, walking pretty much diagonally upstream just to cross in a mostly straight line, and the rocks beneath his feet were as slippery and treacherous as could be expected. His cursing was less to do with being wet through and more to do with his worry that he would lose his footing and bob like a cork downstream until he drowned or collided with a bank. When the water finally dropped to waist height and the pull of the current was almost manageable -- he wasn't stupid enough anymore to assume that it would be easy from here, and he kept plodding, checking the security of each footstep before taking the next -- he heaved a sigh of relief and laboured his way out of the water and sat on the stony shoals of the riverbank. The sun above was warm, which was a relief, but the breeze felt chilly now. He knew that the breeze would dry him faster than sunlight alone, but he still shivered and decided that now would be a good time to eat the lembas. His pulled his crossbow out of the satchel, which like many elven-made things was waterproof and easy to secure and set it beside him, a quarrel in each reach of loading. Then, looking around for danger once more, he bit into the lembas bread and allowed the odd taste of lemon, elvish winegrass and mustard seed to flood his mouth. He was sure he'd not really been hungry before, but the taste of the bread made his mouth water and it was hard to stop eating. He forced himself to put the bread back when it was only half-gone, and looked around for water. "Well, a spring would be nice," he muttered, glaring at the river. The last thing he wanted was to drink from it, but it was the only water around, and he grudgingly conceded that that should be obvious. "You'd need to be about sixty kilometres upstream for that," said a voice behind him. He knelt, snatching up the crossbow and fumbling the quarrel home while he said, "Where the Brandywine starts, stranger?" "Stranger?" said the voice behind him. It sounded elvish. "Have you forgotten me already, cabin-boy?" Frodo resisted the urge to turn and shoot; if the elf was not alone he would hang for murder. The elves had a lot of trees to choose from, and plenty of rope too. He turned slowly, letting the crossbow hang at his side for the moment. "Cereftaghnwaphgle," he said, his tongue spilling the strange syllables easily over his tongue. "I thought you went to the Grey Harbours." "Not just yet," said the white-haired elf. "I've been waiting for a messenger."
Greg - yes, well, it was 12 degrees here today, so you're just in the wrong part of the world, is all. Well, I'm sure you like the fact that it was snowing, so maybe we're both in the right part of the world for ourselves?
Are you actually going to make yourself type that name out over and over? Or will Frodo just shoot him and put you out of your misery?
Either way, that was an excellent description of the short hobbit crossing the river.
2 comments:
While the 21st is the equinox and the first day of Spring, I think you might be being a little optimistic there. It was still snowing in Kyiv on Saturday :-D
the spring
Frodo struggled across the ford at the Brandywine river, wishing that the messenger-elf's horse had stopped instead of running off. True, he was so short that mounting the horse would have been an issue, but it would have saved him from getting soaked through because no-one had thought that a bridge here would be a much more sensible way of traffic coming in and out of Hobbiton. The water was nearly neck deep on him, and even small waves washed over his head, plastering his hair to his skull and causing him to gasp for air. The current was strong and he had to fight it constantly, walking pretty much diagonally upstream just to cross in a mostly straight line, and the rocks beneath his feet were as slippery and treacherous as could be expected. His cursing was less to do with being wet through and more to do with his worry that he would lose his footing and bob like a cork downstream until he drowned or collided with a bank.
When the water finally dropped to waist height and the pull of the current was almost manageable -- he wasn't stupid enough anymore to assume that it would be easy from here, and he kept plodding, checking the security of each footstep before taking the next -- he heaved a sigh of relief and laboured his way out of the water and sat on the stony shoals of the riverbank. The sun above was warm, which was a relief, but the breeze felt chilly now. He knew that the breeze would dry him faster than sunlight alone, but he still shivered and decided that now would be a good time to eat the lembas.
His pulled his crossbow out of the satchel, which like many elven-made things was waterproof and easy to secure and set it beside him, a quarrel in each reach of loading. Then, looking around for danger once more, he bit into the lembas bread and allowed the odd taste of lemon, elvish winegrass and mustard seed to flood his mouth. He was sure he'd not really been hungry before, but the taste of the bread made his mouth water and it was hard to stop eating. He forced himself to put the bread back when it was only half-gone, and looked around for water.
"Well, a spring would be nice," he muttered, glaring at the river. The last thing he wanted was to drink from it, but it was the only water around, and he grudgingly conceded that that should be obvious.
"You'd need to be about sixty kilometres upstream for that," said a voice behind him. He knelt, snatching up the crossbow and fumbling the quarrel home while he said,
"Where the Brandywine starts, stranger?"
"Stranger?" said the voice behind him. It sounded elvish. "Have you forgotten me already, cabin-boy?"
Frodo resisted the urge to turn and shoot; if the elf was not alone he would hang for murder. The elves had a lot of trees to choose from, and plenty of rope too. He turned slowly, letting the crossbow hang at his side for the moment.
"Cereftaghnwaphgle," he said, his tongue spilling the strange syllables easily over his tongue. "I thought you went to the Grey Harbours."
"Not just yet," said the white-haired elf. "I've been waiting for a messenger."
Greg - yes, well, it was 12 degrees here today, so you're just in the wrong part of the world, is all. Well, I'm sure you like the fact that it was snowing, so maybe we're both in the right part of the world for ourselves?
Are you actually going to make yourself type that name out over and over? Or will Frodo just shoot him and put you out of your misery?
Either way, that was an excellent description of the short hobbit crossing the river.
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